Respect
by LadyScribe
Summary: A young Meg Giry wanders lost in the depths of the Opera Populaire looking for the Opera Ghost, and stumbles upon a very real Phantom. Oneshot.


Welcome to my first Phantom Phic! This is meant to be a one-shot, but could _possibly _be extended if the mood strikes me. Feedback of any kind would be wonderful, of course. I hope you like it.

Disclaimer: Not mine, wish it was.

Note: Mostly ALW based, but could have some elements of Leroux, depending on how you look at it.

* * *

Meg Giry was not frightened in the least.

At least, that was what she told herself as she wandered through the depths of the Opera Populaire, hopelessly lost. What had started out as an act of bravery to impress the other ballet rats had rapidly morphed into a situation said Giry was not entirely comfortable with. Better yet, not at all comfortable with.

"Go on, Meg!" the other girls had teased, propelling her swiftly towards the section of the Opera House that had been sternly marked as "off limits" to all curious little dancers. "Go on! Aren't frightened of the Opera Ghost, are you?"

It was their last comment that had pushed her over the edge. Drawing herself up to her full height, she snatched the lantern they held out to her and stalked towards the staircase that descended into darkness.

"I'm not scared at all," Meg coolly remarked over her shoulder, as if she hadn't a care in the world. "And I can too prove that I've seen the ghost!" she threw in for good measure, knowing that it would impress them all the more. Tossing her head and squaring her small shoulders, twelve-year-old Marguerite Giry picked her way down the dust covered stairs with (she hoped) as much dignity as she could muster.

Now, what seemed like aeons later, Meg desperately followed a new path she had found, hoping against all hope that it would lead straight to the room she shared with the other ballet rats and to her warm bed.

"Why did you have to be so stupid?" she wailed softly to herself, not for the first time. If she hadn't been so desperate to impress the other girls, she would never have made up that silly tale in which she claimed to have glimpsed to the Phantom. Her mother would have soundly boxed her ears if she had caught wind of such a thing, but...

Meg exhaled sharply, the force of her breath pushing her bangs off of her damp forehead. What she desperatly wanted was to be accepted by the other girls. Her heart ached with sadness whenever the other girls gathered together before practices to talk amongst themselves. It was, little Meg often thought to herself, the worst feeling in the world not to be accepted. Of course, no one ever said anything rude or unkind, but she could tell by the way that they looked at her. She could see it in the way they leaned towards each other while talking, and she awkwardly stood on the side, trying to find some way to enter into the conversation.

Meg knew exactly why the other girls excluded her, but could do nothing about it. Her mother was the ballet mistress; she taught all aspiring ballerinas and primas under the roof of the Opera Populaire. This had inevitably led to whispers of favoritism, which echoed spitefully whenever Meg was placed in the front lines or had a bit part in any of the performances. What was worse was that it was all untrue. Her mother never showed favoritism of any kind, expect in the fact that she was the hardest on her daughter. Meg had been dancing for much longer than all the other girls, and learned quickly, but it never seemed to be enough for the older Giry.

"Lift your leg higher, Meg Giry!" her mother would shout, rapping her cane on the stage floor for emphasis. "Your feet, they must turn outward! You must try harder!"

Meg would push herself to the point of exhaustion at every practice, desperate to please her mother, but none of the girls seemed to notice her efforts or her talent. All advancement was credited as her mother's doing, not her own.

It was this burning desire to fit in that fueled her imagination. When the other girls told stories and whispered about the dreaded Opera Ghost that haunted their home, Meg saw it as an opportunity to have the spotlight, for once.

"I've seen him!" Thelie tumbled from her lips before she even knew what she was saying. "I have seen the Phantom!"

Meg's heart swelled with a strange sort of pride when every pair of eyes fixed upon her, and every voice urged her to go on with her story. Meg bit her lip and paused; her mother had often told her never to speak badly of the Ghost. Maman had said he was to be respected, after all. Then she again looked at the enraptured faces of her peers, and the scales tipped.

"...and he wore a great black cape, blacker than a starless sky, with a hood drawn over his head, hiding his face! He was taller than any man I've ever seen, and he wore fine leather boots with silver buckles..."

Naturally after the novelty of the tale wore off, the other girls demanded proof of the encounter, which, of course, she did not have. And so began her midnight adventure in the Opera's restricted section (off limits due to renovations, but that mattered little and did nothing to dampen the spirit of adventure for the girls, or the one of horror for Meg).

Lost in her thoughts, Meg stumbled a bit over the uneven ground. It was just her luck, she thought miserably, that it was a Saturday night, and the next day was one of rest, almost ensuring the fact that no one would be looking for her.

"If you could come out now, Monsieur le Phantome, I would be most grateful," she muttered half to herself. She was getting very tired from all of her exploring, as well as the performance she had taken part in earlier in the night. She stumbled again, and with a heavy sigh sank to the ground. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them, after carefully positioning her lantern as closly as she could to her body without burning herself. Meg refused to think about her predicament; if she did, she would surely burst into tears on the spot, for even though she was quite brave, she was still a little girl, after all.

Meg sat in silence for some time, clutching the fabric of her nightgown. She shivered and curled herself into an even tighter ball, trying very hard to ignore the tightness of her throat and the burning sensation behind her eyes.

"Oh, Maman!" she whispered, and her shoulders shook all the harder. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she sobbed. She cried until her throat ached unbearably and her chest hurt, and then a bit more. Her sobs eventually died down, and a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Her eyelids drooped, and her head nodded as her body relaxed against the cool stone she was huddled against. Her eyes had just shut, and she was on the brink of sleep when-

Meg's eyes snapped open, and all tiredness left her body as a surge of adrenaline ran through her veins. What was that? Her eyes darted back and forth, unable to make anything out in the gloom that surrounded her. There it was again! She was sure of it! A rustling...no, more like the swish of fabric. Heavy, expensive fabric that Meg had often admired from afar on the rich, handsome men and elegant ladies that visited the Opera house. Meg's heart hammered so forcefully she was sure that it would break free of her chest; surely whatever that noise was coming from could hear it!

"Hello?" her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, so low that she could barely hear it herself. "Who's there?" Meg glanced around wildly, straining to hear or see anything, when all of a sudden, she saw it.

Him, rather, for it was a man that she saw, or at least _something _that looked like a man. She froze, her eyes widening in fear as they took in the vague outline of the figure before her. She could make out the shape of his broad shoulders, see the outline of his cloak, and glimsed a strange, white glimmer on the side of his face. The man did not move, and he seemed to be as shocked as she was; he simply gazed back at her, not moving at all.

"Who are you, child?" The man spoke at last. Meg started at the sound of his voice, so unexpected, so...beautiful. For as strange as it was, despite all of her fear, it registered in her head that his voice was the lovliest sound she had ever heard. Warily, Meg climbed to her feet with the ever-present grace of a dancer, the fabric of her shift clenched in her fists. "What is your name?" The voice asked again, more gently, seeming to take pity on the frightened child.

"M-Marguerite Giry," she said almost breathlessly, her ears still ringing with the sound of his voice.

"Ah," the man said, and it seemed as if her name held some significance to him, but Meg hadn't the courage to ask. He seemed to decide upon something at that instant, for his posture abruptly changed and he cautiously stepped towards the pool of light created by her flickering lantern. "You have no need to fear me, Marguerite Giry," he said, seeing her tense, "I will not harm you."

"Monsier," Meg asked, awe tinging her voice, "Are you the Opera Ghost?"

It was the last thing she remembered of that night.

* * *

The Opera Ghost carefully gathered the tiny ballerina in his arms. The little thing had been so frightened.

"Monsier," she had asked, her eyes like saucers has she searched the darkness for his visage, "Are you the Opera Ghost?"

Then she had crumpled to the ground in a dead faint. For a moment he thought she had died of pure fright, then saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The child-Marguerite-had surely been overwhelmed by shock and the irresistable pull of sleep, for she did not stir when he carefully lifted her and began walking. He treaded carefully, mindful of the precious cargo he held in his arms. He had left behind little Giry's lantern, for he did not need it; his eyes could see much in the dark.

The Opera Ghost walked quickly and quietly as any ghost; indeed, if any had been awake to see him, he would have appeared to be naught but a spirit. A night spirit, he thought somewhat wryly, with a golden-haired child of the light in its arms. How strange it was to hold another person so closely, he thought as Marguerite stirred slightly. He had never held anyone, let alone a child. If she wasn't Giry's little one he would not have cared for her so, he believed, but he was loathe to leave any girl, even one so young as Marguerite, where the likes of Joseph Buquet could find her.

He was nearly there; the rat's quarters were just around the corner. Ever so gently, the Phantom nudged the heavy oak door ajar and glanced around the sparely furnished room. Save for the small beds there were few obstacles in his way, and the other children were all asleep. He waited a minute more, listening for signs of wakefulness, then silently and swiftly padded into the rectangular room. Marguerite's bed was pushed against the far wall, the last in her row. It was lucky, he thought, that the child did not share a room with her mother; Giry woke at the slightest whisper, and would have gone half mad if she saw him holding her young daughter in such a way, in the small hours of the morning. The notion and the surreal nature of the entire event struck him as suddenly humerous, and his lips twisted into a formation of a smile.

"You are safe now, Mademoiselle Marguerite," he whispered, laying the child upon her bed; as an after thought he lightly laid her blanket upon her. He regarded her for a moment, then brought his heels together and bowed like a dancing master to her inert form. Then he turned, not noticing as the hem of his cloak caught against a nail slightly protruding from Marguerite's bed post, and walked away.

* * *

When Meg woke the next morning, she found a a bit of velvet from a great black cape, blacker than a starless sky, caught against a nail on her bedpost.

She never spoke of the Phantom to the other ballet rats again. He was, after all, to be respected.


End file.
